Transylvania nocturne

I have had a wonderful many years since height of the Obama Administration to present my site to the world. I am a lesbian lady-female of Icelandic, Russian, American, Uzbek, Romanian/Trans, and English heritage. I have released five books during the Trump Administration, published by KDP. The other books I had released through IU and KDP during the Obama Administration have been selling internationally (thank you team India/Publa). My family have suffered amidst the pandemic and my father’s loss of his wife has brought undue suffering that I must relocate to a different town/city that I can continue writing and work on my physical fitness.

Me with my MFi modded-out iPad deepGreen

As you know, I work on such devices as Apple, Motorola, and experimental antenna equipment. Having signed the draft at age 18 and leaving my home, I serve my country as a super athlete, a lesbian of some sort with too many hots for women who serve United States Armed Forces, and battle to this day to abstain from Tora Bora thoughts of doing harm to enemies with Daisy Cutters, those large weapons of our big USA in the battlefield. I am not into Green Peace or Peace Corps smelly hippy chicks per se (which could be false), but I know chainsaws and smoke jumper tech that is credit-card lvl out of control close to Joseph Stalin communist about clear-cutting Brasil to kill the nazis and sink the U-Boats. I worship in no way whatsoever seeing black and white at 55kHz for the U.S.S. Eldridge teleporting 300 six-packs down the coast line and remember the U.S.S. Cole and the suicidal feelings of navy men and women close to my age whom were effected. I am no spy and my sky is hot.

A badass identifiable flying object (BIFO)

I remember growing up under the hard impact guidelines of George H. W. Bush’s administration policies for eliminating the desert and turning the sand into glass. With excessive production of the F-117 Nighthawk and the undeniably future-force of the B-2 stealth versus a headon Apache, a jetpack failure and dismemberment of a US Military corpsman during the Gulf War woke me up to the dangers of personalised guppy, gear with a mechanical-like assistance to make the human body push harder and faster beyond some totalitarian confidence of the resume of commandant. The soviets had already shown the most disgusting footage of flamethrower, bicycle, pogo stick, and skateboard ever imagined, some heightened pornographic violence of topless women disassembling such equipment only to ballet-pirouette away from the camera with another impending flamethrower commandant taking over their workstation or position. What felt like auschwitz or gulag torture and violence on a scale of heightened technology heading jetpack-Rocketeer-head-up-helmet-forward into the Clinton administration, I was surprised our family were even able to vote. We had survived, and the antennas were warming the enemy.

my first publication of dystopian fiction / science fiction erotica

“Works of Art” was a term for hallucinating amidst a jetpack burn certain images in the meat of the body, frequencies and overheating elements of the periodic table ratcheting iron-mikes through the skin and eyes, cooking off the smell of edible food. I am horrified of the jetpack, the soviet skate, the sadness of the anorexic, smiling factory rollerblading girl who would fall and die on ramps after work, some communist. I don’t know where I feel – period-shits, bone matter, a screaming X-Games ramp accident I fail in my impression of my pants to safety, laying there watching television whilst Tony Hawk and his friends excelled to give the crowd, something small for the Major D. Ramp, invaded by men whom had placed sex wax on the pipe, their punishment some loss of mixed martial purse equivalent. Threats of homelessness or disintegration of family units into gulag and auschwitz became the fear of the game, our losses.

When I hold my breath, I want women to not cry, for it is the men had moved me in a special way that the feces rested in my underwear, my x-games dreams crushed by a broken back, that there was not as much feces as loss of my not-so-hagus English honourclitten, my hymen smashed by the impact of falling onto the plywood. I’m puking-none, not rebelling into the crass journalism as my elders. The M14 is American. Loss of consciousness before another crisis of protestors, hopefully unarmed and with equipment to document but not always to express. Laser pointer watches, some dishonourable status.


Deweaponising one’s life is hard to consider as anything but being the most viable life form to be consumed for resources by a predator under intense observation. National Geographic. Trophy hunters. Rejection of symmetry under Gurdjeyevian Decemberism of hoarding gasoline in the Soviet Union leading to wildland fires so huge, time and space shift in the Urals and NORAD makes a mass invasion-push. The year 2010 had that feel for some. For me living in America at the time, it was several more years my region witnessed an equivalent heinous-ness of severe drought, flooding, and horrifying encounters with the National Guard, Fukushima fallout, forcing big diggers onto and at the edges of our hobbled mountain town. Years later, I reminisce with regards stress and people in my life not understanding what it takes to survive whilst helping others as well as being equipped to topple the enemy. Having been honoured by Americans that serve and continue to serve, it is my hope our country will make it through this troublesome new year 2021.

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